Playing for the New York Yankees, that would be a dream come true. Playing for the Milwaukee Brewers, that was like having a wet dream about your wife. The women perked up and the men on the other side of the room deflated as Dobbs walked in. He was 6’3” and built like a sprinter. A plump woman with a clipboard waved him over and had him pick a card out of a hat, then told him to stand with the other men. Dobbs thought about the game last night. He had been staring at a pretty girl in the stands. The catcher had noticed and picked him off, which is pretty unforgivable for a pinch runner. His only job was to not get picked off. He couldn’t hit, he couldn’t throw, and he could barely bunt. All he could do was run fast and supposedly be smart on the… Read more

Grandpa sat at the table poking at his turkey. It was too dry, but he would never complain about it. It was food, and food was for eating, and if you had food, you were a pretty lucky guy. But still, it was too dry. It was too dry every Thanksgiving. Wendy just wasn’t a very good cook and her husband Ron was an idiot. The kids, Sam and Josie, were also idiots. They looked like they were about college aged. There was still a slim chance they’d grow out of it, but most people grew more and more into it. Grandpa remembered when Wendy was still a child. She had been such a sweet, intelligent girl, and now she was a robotic harpy. A robotic harpy married to an idiot, and she still didn’t know how to cook a turkey. “Ron, what are you doing?” “You said to start… Read more

Phil needed a cigarette. Or maybe a snort of ketamine. Being a veterinarian had its perks. He had always loved animals, or at least liked them more than people. Unfortunately, the animals who came in for care tended to have owners, and those owners were always people. He took off his gloves and started to wash up when there was a rap at his door. Katie opened it and stuck her head in before he could answer. She consulted her clipboard as she spoke. “We’ve got a walk in, she says it’s an emergency. Missy Burrell.” “Is that the cat’s name or the owner’s?” “It’s the owner’s name. And it’s a dalmatian, not a cat.” “What kind of a name is ‘Missy’?” “A cat’s name?” “What kind of an emergency is it?” “She wouldn’t tell me. She said it was confidential.” Great. A nutcase. And it was already well past… Read more

The boss sat at his desk drinking tepid instant coffee. He wasn’t self-aware when he could avoid it, but he was a having a moment and not enjoying it. His intercom buzzed. The boss groaned and pushed the intercom button. “Mable?” “Alex is here to see you.” The boss removed his finger from the intercom button. “For the love of god.” He pushed the button again. “Send her in.” Alex entered and the boss gestured for her to sit down. She smiled awkwardly and took a seat. The boss knew he had to be very careful not to speak or behave naturally. “I know you’re busy, and I’m sorry to bother you.” Does she really know that, and is she really sorry? He wondered. “It’s just that, well . . .” The boss felt something inside of himself break and begin to dissolve. “Alex, I hope you know that… Read more

Lucy could hear noise coming from the kitchen Click-click. Glug glug glug glug. “Ahhh.” Flick-flick. Phhhhh. “Ahhh.” Glug glug glug glug glug. “Bleeugh.” Crunk. Stomp stomp stomp. Pa-fff. Click-click. Glug glug glug glug. She looked at the clock on her nightstand. It was six in the morning. Six in the morning and it had already begun. She was about to yell at him to stop smoking in the house, but Big Baby McFuckface beat her to it. “Lucy! Lucy, goddammit! We’re almost out of beer. Beer beer beer beer beer!” Big Baby started pounding on the table and cackling as he chanted. “Beer beer beer beer beer! Ha ha hahaha! Beeeeeeer!” “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Lucy dragged herself out of bed and started pulling her clothes on. She’d ignored Big Baby in the past… Read more

Walter sat at his computer, staring at his novel in progress. It was nearly 300 pages long so far and all of it was crap. He’d always had problems writing. At first, he’d thought his problems might have something to do with genre, but everything he wrote ended up being in the same genre: crap. He’d considered that his problems might be related to length, that maybe he could sustain quality in shorter bursts. He’d switched from novels to novellas to short stories to poetry and the results were always the same: crap. Eventually, he’d done the only reasonable thing he could think of to do and quit. For seven years, he had abandoned his one seemingly feasible dream. You didn’t have to be physically fit or attractive or talented to write. All you had to do was to keep writing and editing, fixing your errors and improving… Read more